by Linda Grant
At least Adrienne’s dog, Mignon, was there to keep her company. Laney amused herself by teaching Mignon some tricks. The dog was smart and caught on fast. What would Adrienne think when Laney left?
Lafayette had gone out for the day; he was probably drilling the 80 men under him. He returned in the middle of the afternoon and came to her room.
“How are you feeling, dear heart?” he asked, stroking one of her hands.
A quiver of delight went through her. “Very well,” she answered.
“Last night you were like a veritable Minerva.”
Minerva who? Oh, yeah, the Roman goddess of war, among other things. She remembered seeing a picture in history class of the goddess carrying a shield and a spear. Nice of Lafayette to think that she was so brave, but she could never tell him that the reason she had reacted so fast was due to her dad, who had drilled into her the importance of being mindful, aware at all times of what was going on around her. Her Aikido instructor was always harping on the same thing.
“I must go now, chérie, and get ready for the dinner tonight. I am glad that you are feeling well, but you must confine yourself to bed,” he added firmly.
He laid a kiss on top of her head and was about to leave when she grabbed his sleeve and pleaded, “When you return, will you visit me and tell me about the dinner?”
If he was astonished at her insistence, he was too well-bred to show it. “As you wish,” he said, caressing her hair, and left.
The afternoon and evening passed agonizingly slowly, but eventually she fell asleep. She was awakened by a light knock on her bedroom door. The candle had guttered out and the room was dark. “Come in.”
Lafayette opened the door and strode over to a table, where he put down the candle he was carrying. The light threw a warm glow over the gold epaulettes on his blue-and-white dress uniform. His face was flushed with wine and excitement. He sat down next to her on the bed and, kissing her on the cheek, asked, “You are feeling better, dear heart?”
She nodded and squirmed around in the enormous four-poster bed as she tried to sit up and make herself more comfortable.
Lafayette was quick to notice and said, “Let me, chérie,” as he adjusted the embroidered pillows on the enormous bed.
“So what did the Duke of Gloucester say that has you so excited?” asked Laney, the nearness of her husband sending unaccustomed feelings rioting through her.
Lafayette paused for a moment, then burst out, “I have found my life’s purpose. The duke, he told us …”
He mastered his emotion, then went on. “Until today, I have followed the usual path of young men my age, but now my eyes have been opened by this prince among men, who told us about the dispatches he had just received concerning the Americans.”
Too excited to stay still, Lafayette stood up and began pacing. “You must understand, Adrienne,” he said, “that like many a French patriot I have grieved over our loss of New France to Britain on the Plains of Abraham, where our general, the Marquis de Montcalm, was killed.
“Some still blame Montcalm for the loss of our colonies, but I am told that like all good officers, he fought for honor and glory and followed the instructions Versailles gave him to defend Quebec, which was central to the defense of New France.
“But even today—sixteen years later—one wonders why he was not given the requisite number of troops for this defense? And how was he to know that the British under General Wolfe would prove so wily? As a result of this defeat, the Treaty of Paris decreed that France had to give her colonies to Britain.”
Lafayette sat down beside her and continued. “The duke,” he said, “is a most persuasive speaker. He says these Americans have a passion for liberty and freedom. They wish to run their own affairs, not be dictated to by their king. As it is, George III allows them no say in their affairs, taxing them without consent and provoking them by other harsh measures. Adrienne, the Americans need help with troops and money if they are to overcome their masters.”
He paused, looking at her lovingly, and then said quietly, “But it is wrong of me to distress you with these matters. You must rest, for our child’s sake, as well as for your own—and mine. Perhaps you do not know how dear to me you have become this past year, particularly when you defended me yesterday from an assassin.”
“And you to me,” murmured Laney, impulsively holding out her arms to her husband. Lafayette hesitated and then began stripping off his uniform.
His eager smile was the last thing she saw as her consciousness began slipping out of Adrienne’s body. She knew a brief, intense regret as she gave herself up to the inevitable.
CHAPTER 25
Tom Eldridge–Jason Kramer Pease Field Fight, Rhode Island, July 9, 1675
* * *
A shove sent J.J. sprawling in the dirt. Grunting, he turned over and stared up into a face streaked with grime.
“Beg pardon for smacking you down, but it would be a pity if a likely lad like yourself were to furnish a scalp for Philip’s belt. It were best to lie low like Church said.”
J.J. swallowed the bile that his churning stomach had forced up into his throat. His skin felt prickly, the rough clothing he was wearing chafing him in the heat.
“Uh, thanks, Mr. …”
“Bill Southward, at your service.”
J.J. sneaked a quick look around. He was lying on his stomach near a split rail fence, which enclosed a field of peas. Dense woods lay on one side of him and a river on the other side. Men holding long-barreled flintlocks lay quietly near him. Obviously he was no longer in Little Running Horse’s body, but in the body of a young white boy about his own age—Tom Eldridge. Jumbled memories swarmed into his mind: shooting squirrels to give to his mother for a stew; coming out of the woods surrounding his parents’ farm only to find Indians burning their farmhouse; his mother screaming as a warrior split his father’s skull and then his mother falling to the ground from a blow to her head; and his two small sisters being carried off by an Indian brave on horseback.
All Tom wanted to do after that was to fight the savages who had killed his family.
Two Indians stood up and began walking out of the field. They didn’t look much like some of the Indians he’d seen hanging around the grotty hotels on Main Street back in Winnipeg in 1992. These men were tall and looked extremely fit, wearing only loincloths, feathers in their hair, and streaks of paint on their faces and bodies. J.J. swallowed hard. He couldn’t, just couldn’t, fire on them.
Then the Indians were running, and a plump man was standing up and calling to them.
“We want only to talk to you! We will not hurt you!”
The Indians paid no attention him but just kept coming. One of them turned and fired on the man who wanted to talk to them.
“You treacherous dog!” roared Bill, firing at the Indian, who yelled, clapped a hand to his arm, and then ran into a thicket.
“Up, lad! After Church!”
J.J. leaped up, remembering to take with him the long-barreled gun lying beside him.
The forest was dim and cool under the sheltering branches of oaks and maples that must have been standing before the time of Columbus. The volley of shots directed their way made him realize that this wasn’t the time to moon over the scenery. He was surprised to find himself still standing and the men around him apparently unhurt.
As they returned fire, the man whom J.J. now recognized to be Captain Church cried, “Do not fire your guns all at once, or they’ll run upon us with their hatchets!”
Feeling totally useless, J.J. turned and ran back with the others to the field of peas.
“Under the fence, lad,” urged Bill, running beside him.
J.J. threw himself down in the field of peas and held his breath. Men were standing up and ramming powder and shot into the barrels of their guns. Now he could see why they hadn’t been shot. The enemy only had one chance to knock you off. Then they had to recharge their guns. That gave you time to run away, unless they came at you wit
h hatchets as Church had said they might.
The hill above was swarming with Indians, the sunlight glinting on their weapons.
“They think to gain the advantage by surrounding us,” observed Bill, lying on his stomach beside him. His bulk was comforting to the boy, but his words were not.
“So what do we do?”
“Don’t fret, lad. Church has a plan. He always does. A good Christian gentleman, a man of parts, he is. I should know. His sister is my wife.” Looking keenly at him, Bill asked, “You new to the Indian war?”
J.J. nodded uneasily. If Bill only understood how new!
“Then ’tis best you stick with me. Now what would your name be, lad?”
“Tom,” he said. “Tom Eldridge. Sir,” he added belatedly. People seemed to talk awful formal in this time period.
More of Tom’s memories started pouring in: joining Church and his men to fight Indians who were burning English settlements; Church making friends of Indians living near his farm before King Philip’s War and even during the war and using friendly Indians as scouts and warriors. Church used tactics he’d learned from the Sakonnet warriors he trusted, tactics like slipping through the woods and surprising the enemy, often at night when they least expected it. Church didn’t wait for Metacom’s forces to attack but attacked first.
They had found fresh Indian tracks that very day that led to Captain Almy’s field of peas.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Tom Eldridge. As to our situation here, Church confided in me earlier that there be boats ordered to attend on him. If you look over yonder, I reckon those be the ones.”
J.J. looked in the direction Bill was pointing and noticed for the first time a group of men and horses standing on the other side of the river beside several boats pulled up on the shore.
“Strip to your shirts, men,” bawled Church, lying a few yards away, “so the men across the river know us to be Englishmen!”
Smart idea. The Indians weren’t wearing shirts, only the English. J.J. wished that on a hot summer day like this that he could take off his shirt, too.
“Aye, aye,” muttered Bill, tearing off his jacket to reveal a white shirt similar to the ones the other men were wearing.
As J.J. removed his slightly gamey-smelling jacket of deerskin, he heard three distinct shots, probably signals to their would-be rescuers.
“Now you men take shelter at that wall before the Indians gain it,” said Church, pointing to a low wall some yards ahead.
Feeling very exposed, J.J. reluctantly got up and ran after Bill. Bill suddenly stooped down and grabbed some peas. “Go on, lad, gather some. It’s certain you must be as hungry as me. A soldier learns to take what Providence provides when he can.”
J.J. stooped down. Bill raised his flintlock and fired. A yell was suddenly cut off. J.J.’s imagination could fill in the rest. A flintlock could make a pretty messy hole in a man.
“On your feet, Tom. Be quick!” Bill yelled as with one powerful hand he hauled J.J. to his feet. They both leaped the low wall with the determination and speed of Olympic hurdlers, his mind spinning crazily as they tumbled down the small bank.
“Good work, Bill. Praise be to God for delivering you and your friend,” said Church a few moments later as he tumbled down near them.
“Tom Eldridge, Benjamin. It’s his first campaign.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Church, his large bright eyes assessing J.J. with a friendly look. “You do well, Tom, to stay close to an old campaigner like Bill.”
A volley of shots whistled over their heads, seeming to come from all directions: from the ruins of a stone house, a heap of black rocks, and from behind trees and fence posts. How were they ever going to get out of this mess?
As if reading his thoughts, Church laid a hand comfortingly on J.J.’s shoulder and said, “Many a time I’ve been in a tight corner, but always a heavenly Providence has watched over me.”
J.J. drew a shaky breath. This time was he supposed to be that Providence? Jeremy had told him that if Church didn’t stop Metacom and his Indians who were attacking the English colonies, Count Frontenac would swoop down from the north, conquer the Thirteen Colonies, and claim them for France. Then there would be no American Revolution and no America to stop the Nazis in World War II.
But how was he supposed to help Church when he was having trouble staying alive? He was more a liability to the others than anything. If it hadn’t been for Bill, he’d be lying dead right now with his face in some farmer’s peas.
“I’m very grateful to Bill …” he began awkwardly.
“I couldn’t let a good Englishman have his head taken off by a pack of heathens, could I?” interrupted Bill as he clapped J.J. on the back.
“Now, Bill, some of my best soldiers are Indians, and they are as good Christians as you or me,” reproved Church, his glance roving around the landscape as they talked.
He broke off and shouted to a boat putting off from the other shore, “Hallo! Send your canoe ashore!”
Now Church’s men began screaming, “Help, rescue us! Our ammunition is spent!”
“The fools! They’ll acquaint the Indians with our plight, who’ll harry us even harder!” said Church. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Captain, send your canoe ashore or else leave! Do this or I will fire upon you!”
To J.J.’s dismay, the boat turned in the water and sailed away. Little flashes of light came from all around them, and the acrid smell of powder burned in their nostrils as the Indians began firing faster than ever.
One of the men near J.J. muttered, “I’m sore tempted to flee.”
“Aye, before those devils take our heads,” agreed his companion.
“You’d not get far,” said Church, who had overheard their conversation. “Be sparing of your ammunition, and your courage shall be rewarded. God has preserved us thus far and shall continue to keep us safe.”
The men had stopped complaining and were listening intently to Church.
The sun went down in a splendor of crimson and orange, turning the river into a frothing tide of molten gold that dazzled J.J.’s eyes and made him homesick for his grandparent’s cottage on Lake of the Woods, where he’d daydreamed on their dock on many an evening just like this one.
Too soon, fingers of twilight began stalking the land, making huge shadows of the Indians, whose long whooping yells tore at J.J.’s nerves.
Where was Dan? Had he made it to New England or maybe even gone back home?
If only he could go back to the 20th century, back to Winnipeg, back to his dad and mom, back to his friends. He didn’t belong here with these people who had been dead for over 300 years. This wasn’t even his country! What was he doing here?
“The sloop! Benjamin, the sloop!” yelled Bill.
J.J. heard Church exclaim, “Praise be! Captain Golding has come to fetch us!”
And then Bill was pounding on his back, whispering hoarsely, “Did I not tell you, Tom, that Church would find a way?”
More like the captain, whoever he was.
“Send your canoe so we can come aboard!” shouted Church.
As a canoe came bobbing over the waves, J.J. exclaimed, “But it’s so small!”
“Big enough for two stout lads at a time,” said Church. “Go now, Tom. You’ve a good chance to make it safely on deck under cover of the fire of the ship’s company.”
“I’d rather wait, sir.”
Church nodded, pleased, J.J. saw, by his decision to wait.
How could he explain that he wasn’t being a hero; he was waiting to see if the others could make it out alive. No way could he tell this man how he really felt.
Then while his nerves crawled with fear, he had to sit and watch while close to 20 men ventured out, two at a time, into the canoe. All of them managed to get safely on board the sloop. “Your turn, lad,” Church was saying. “You go with him, Bill.”
Bill shook his head, his expression obstinate. “I’ll wait unt
il you both have gone.”
Church began pouring powder down the long barrel of the flintlock and tamping it down with a long slender rod. “I must retrieve my cutlass and hat at the well where I drank when we first came down. I’ll not leave them for the Indians to gloat over.”
Bill began arguing with his brother-in-law. Church was shaking his head.
J.J. wondered if he should run to the well and grab the man’s things. If he did prevent Church’s death by doing this—and it was possible that he could get killed trying—he would condemn thousands of Indians, now and in the future, to lifetimes of poverty, disease, and despair. On the other hand, if Church died, Jeremy said there would be no United States. What should he do?
His mom always said to follow his intuition, but supposing his intuition was wrong?
J.J. shivered. He had to make a decision right now, and it had better be the right one.
Church put a hand on his shoulder and looked encouragingly at him. Now he was turning away. J.J. felt a surge of anger. Why was Church willing to risk dying for a stupid hat and a sword just because he didn’t want the Indians to gloat over getting them?
Before he could do anything, Church grabbed his gun and charged over to the well standing about 20 yards away in a small clearing. As he snatched up his hat and cutlass—a heavy sucker with a lethal-looking blade—bullets zipped harmlessly around him. J.J. could see why both whites and Indians were in awe of the man: bullets never seemed to touch him.
That could change, and fast. Church was going to get killed. That wasn’t supposed to happen! And it would be all his fault, for acting like a coward and not doing what he was sent here to do.
“To the boat, Tom!” yelled Church, who was sprinting to the river.
It was an impossible distance away, through the field and down to the shore, but with adrenaline pouring through his veins, he found himself whooping and yelling like the soldiers he’d seen in countless Westerns.
